


No Soul to Sell

by kaesaria



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: And Failing, Angry Sex, Angst, Dark, Love/Hate, M/M, Not A Fix-It, PWP, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Rough Sex, trying to release pent-up emotions through sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 20:58:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7136828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaesaria/pseuds/kaesaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There's hate, love and everything in between for the two of them.</i><br/>_____<br/>Written in response to crescent_gaia's prompt on Rounds of Kink (Round 28) asking for Stony love/hate relationship, protectiveness and rough sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Soul to Sell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crescent_gaia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescent_gaia/gifts), [mrsgingles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsgingles/gifts).



> Prompt: _"There's hate, love, and everything in between for the two of them. That doesn't mean that Steve is going to give up on Tony or stop trying to protect the idiot."_ ... I may have fallen down on the job a bit for protectiveness part? Sorry.
> 
>  **Full disclosure:** This is not a happy fic. Basically it’s all my pent-up Stony frustrations after CACW boiled down to ~3k words of angry, angsty smut. Read at your own risk, folks.
> 
> ETA 06/09/2016: It was [this beautiful comic](http://mrsgingles.tumblr.com/post/144079527695/so-no-matter-what-i-promise-you-if-you-need-us) that sparked the inspiration for the first scene of this story. I couldn’t get it out of my head: that image of Tony sitting on the floor all alone in his huge penthouse, looking out over that million dollar view with nothing but his liquor to keep him company... It was so goddamn _tragic_. I highly encourage you to [check it out](http://mrsgingles.tumblr.com/post/144079527695/so-no-matter-what-i-promise-you-if-you-need-us) to set the mood before reading on. (A huge thank you to [mrsgingles](http://mrsgingles.tumblr.com/) for letting me link to it here!)

“Hello?”  Steve’s voice sounds restless, tense on the other end of the line.

Tony can picture his face: the lines that appear between his eyebrows when he’s anxious, the way his eyes widen just a little and his jaw goes tight, like he’s making an effort not to grit his teeth.

“Are you there?” Steve says, and Tony swallows the whiskey in his mouth. 

He drops his head back, bangs it against the wall behind him.  The marble floor is hard, cold under his ass.  Tony thinks about getting up.  He thinks about talking, this time.

“—who’s that?”  Another voice through the line, muffled, throaty with sleep.  Close by.

Tony pulls the cheap plastic flip phone away from his ear, stares at it.

He ignores the ache in his chest, the dullness in his head.  He ignores the way his hand is shaking, the way his clenched fingers are going white, bloodless around the thing.

“Tony, don’t hang up—” is the last thing he hears, tinny.  Tony disconnects.

~

It doesn’t matter, anyway. 

Tony’s too busy, he’s got too much to do—trade shows and speaking events, galas and fundraisers, board meetings and hours grinding in the workshop, tweaking the enhancements to Rhodey’s new legs—

He doesn’t have time to think about Steve, mostly.  Mostly he doesn’t want to.

It only happens in the dark, when he’s alone in his wide bed in the early hours of morning, when he’s tossed around for hours and finally given up on anything as sweet as sleep.  It happens when he’s a drink or two (or three or four) in, when he can’t block them out of his head anymore—the thoughts, the memories.  The anger.

That’s when Tony pulls out the phone, stares at it until his eyes burn and his throat aches and he can’t make sense of anything past the silent screaming, the agony inside his mind and in his chest.

He’s doing it now, he’s looking at the numbers that wave and blur in front of his eyes, he’s thinking about the sequence of digits tattooed across the inside of his eyelids—when the thing suddenly _rings_.

Tony just looks at it for a second, shocked.  The familiar numbers are flashing across the shitty green screen now.  This isn’t how it works.

He opens the phone with numb fingers, slowly brings it to his ear. 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he says.  He can hear the slur in his own voice.  He can hear the stifled sigh as Steve hears it, too.

“Tony, please, you can’t keep—” starts the obligatory rebuke, and Tony giggles.  He hears Steve draw in a breath, tight, short.  He can feel Steve’s displeasure flow through line, coat his skin.

“No, I can’t, apparently,” Tony says, and Steve knows what he means—they’ve always understood each other, under the barbs, behind the bristling.  “I can hang up, though,” he says, and he’s about to—he’s already pulling the phone away from his ear when,

“Tony—don’t.”  Something in the tone cuts through the roiling haze in Tony’s head, makes him hesitate.  “Please, just let me see you,” Steve says.  Tony hears him swallow, then, “We don’t have to talk.”  His voice is soft, a plea, a promise.

Tony can picture his face:  the way his eyebrows draw up and together when he’s nervous, the way his mouth falls just barely open and his lower lip reddens, swells a bit under the rake of worried teeth.

“Alright,” Tony says, finally.  He disconnects.

~

He’s sobered up a little by the time Steve arrives an hour later, maybe two.  It’s still dark outside and Tony’s waiting, naked, in the middle of the bed. 

All locks in the Tower open for Steve, easy, welcoming—from the main entrance ninety floors down to the door of Tony’s master suite—just like they always have.  Steve slips in, soundless, smiling, just like he always has.

The smile disappears when he catches sight of the near-empty bottle on the bedside table, when he catches the heady whiff of liquor in the air.  He doesn’t say anything until he’s close, though—until he’s looming over the bed, arms crossed over his wide chest, huffy and critical and self-righteous and, and so fucking _beautiful_ —

“You can’t keep doing this,” he says, “You’re hurting yourself.  You’re hurting _me_ —”

Steve’s voice cuts off, breaks under the granite edge of the smile Tony throws at him, at that.  He doesn’t look away, though.  He’s Captain fucking America, after all, with or without the shield.  He holds Tony’s gaze even as he swallows, even as his shoulders hunch a little with—guilt, or something.

“What do you want from me, Tony?” he asks quietly.  It makes the vacant thing twist inside Tony’s chest, a new agony.  But—

“Hey,  _I’m_  not the one who called you, lover.” 

Tony sweeps his eyes down Steve’s body, salacious, slow.  He manages a leer, but—it feels brittle across his face.  Jagged.  Tony wants Steve to flex those muscles and erase everything that’s happened in the past few weeks.  He wants Steve to crawl into bed with him, hold him until he falls asleep.  He wants  _Steve_ —

“Tony,” Steve says, and his voice is unbearably soft now, soothing like a balm against Tony’s hurts.  It fucking figures, there was never a moment when Steve couldn’t see past the performance, past the bullshit.  It’s why there was never a moment when Tony didn’t love him.

“Please,” Steve is saying now, “You have to let me explain about… everything, about Bu—”

_No._

“You said we weren’t going to talk,” Tony cuts in, harsh, and he can hear the bitterness in his own voice.  The words taste sour on his tongue, acrid with anger, with self-loathing—but Tony can’t listen to this, he can’t let Steve go on. 

“Come over here and suck my cock,” he says, to change the subject.  To make Steve focus on _him_.  Or, to drive him away, maybe.  But—

“Alright,” is all Steve says, after a long moment.  He sounds—defeated.  Tony doesn’t care.

~

Steve’s mouth is like a homecoming, as always.  He just _fits_ around Tony, as always.

Steve sucks cock like a teenager—sloppy and overeager, more moaning enthusiasm than finesse.  He sucks cock like it’s the first time, every time—like he can’t believe his luck, like having Tony’s dick down his throat is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Tony doesn’t bother holding back, doesn’t bother keeping still—he groans, he writhes, he bucks up his hips, pushes even further into that welcoming heat and, and Steve loves it, he _loves Ton_ —

Tony pulls up his leg, pushes his heel into the dip between Steve’s shoulder blades, and— _ah_ , there—Steve’s fingers are already slippery with lube, they press into him, smooth, slick.  Tony basks in the stretch, the slow burn of Steve working his hole in exactly the right way, the exact way he likes.  

 _Remember this_ , Tony thinks, even as he moans, as he surrenders to the sensations Steve is pulling from him.  _Memorize this_ , Tony thinks, as he listens to the slurping, filthy sounds slipping past Steve’s swollen lips.

But he doesn’t need to, not really—this tangle of sense memories is already wired into the core of him:  entwined, inextricable.  It’s all a part of him; _Steve_ is a part of him—even if he’s no longer a part of Steve, even if Steve has discovered (returned to) someone else, someone better—

Steve curls his fingers, presses—and suddenly nothing matters anymore, no one else exists, there’s nothing beyond the two of them and _this_.  Tony reaches down, holds on, curls into himself—into Steve—and it’s so fucking delicious, so achingly _perfect_ for a blissful moment, for a fleeting instant. 

He can feel Steve groaning, swallowing around him through the end.

~

It takes Tony a few seconds to come back to himself, after.

He’s still got a death grip on the back of Steve’s head, holding him down on his cock.  Steve’s hair is starting to clump a little—from Steve’s own sweat or from Tony’s damp palms.  He lets go.

Steve will pull off now, will move up the bed to grind his big body against Tony the way he likes.  He’ll lift Tony’s leg up out of the way and push into him, hold him down and pound him into the mattress, steady, relentless.  Or maybe Steve will flip over onto his back and jut out his hips, quirk an eyebrow at Tony’s mouth to return the favor.  But—

Steve doesn’t do any of those things.  He slides his fingers out, slow—and Tony is acutely, painfully aware of the empty space inside where Steve was pressing into him, filling him.  But then—he just stays where he is, holds Tony’s spent cock inside the wet heat of his mouth, his lips slack and slippery against Tony’s skin.

And it’s so… _nice_ , such a goddamn characteristically sweet thing for Steve to do, the fucker, to hold Tony through all the aftershocks and beyond, to uncomplainingly wait until Tony is ready to—to let him go—

It twists inside his gut, tender and _longing_ , it’s sickening—

Tony can’t hold back the full body shudder, the goddamn _flinch_ and Steve finally moves, finally lets Tony’s cock slide out of his lips with a slick, wet sound.  He lifts his head, looks up at Tony with that blinding, guileless smile and—Tony _can’t_.   He can’t _have this_ knowing that it’ll be taken away from him again, in a minute, in an hour, in a second.

“Stop gaping at me like an overfucked asshole,” he snarls, “Get up here and fuck me.” 

He ignores the flash of angry shock, of hurt that flickers over Steve’s face, doesn’t let it slow him—he reaches down, grabs Steve by the back of his neck and yanks him up, rough.  He doesn’t give that bewildered, unhappy look a chance to settle on Steve’s face, in Tony’s mind.

Steve lets himself be pulled up, lets Tony cover his lips with his own, lets Tony shove his tongue into him, pushing close enough to clack their teeth together.  He lets Tony invade his mouth, lick the bitter taste of himself out of every corner and crevice.

It goes on and on and Tony can’t breathe anymore.  He feels Steve’s mouth sucking messily on his tongue.  Steve’s hands are scrabbling sweat-slick against his skin.  Steve’s rock-hard cock is pushing at him, greedy, leaving streaks of filthy wet across his belly—

Tony shoves him off, panting.  He doesn’t give himself a chance to think—he flips himself around, wraps his arms around the pillow, presses his cheek into it.  His whole body feels tight, electric, taut like a rubber band stretched to just this side of snapping.  He spreads his legs, lifts up his hips, “Do it now,” he gasps, growls, “do it, fucking fuck me.”

“Tony—”

“Shut up,” Tony spits the words into the pillow, “This is what you came here for, isn’t it?”  He pulls his right knee out, making more room behind him, “So _do it_ already.  Or—just leave.”  _Again_ , he doesn’t say—because that would be fucking childish, right? Immature?—but he knows Steve hears it anyway. 

He’s still slick, open where Steve’s fingers were in him before.  He can feel Steve still hesitating behind him.  Tony looks over his shoulder, twists the knife.

“Come on, baby, don’t tell me I’m not even good enough for _this_.”

Tony smirks as Steve surrenders, as Steve moves over him, starts to press into him.  It doesn’t matter if the smile feels like a smear across his face, like a void inside his gut—Steve will fill it soon enough.  Will fill _him_.

Tony shifts his arms to his sides, fists his fingers in the sheets and holds himself open.  He cants his hips and pushes back, whines low in his throat as Steve fucks into him, as he starts to thrust.

And maybe Steve is rougher than usual—than before—but Tony doesn’t mind.  Steve’s body feels huge over him, inside him, and his thrusts are deep, relentless, almost brutal. 

Steve’s fingers are digging into Tony’s upper arms, holding him down.  There’ll be bruises in the morning, but Tony doesn’t care.  He can hear Steve gasping, his hot breath close to Tony’s ear.  He can feel the wet, sucking kisses Steve is pressing into his shoulder, the back of his neck and Tony arches for more, he pushes back to meet Steve’s rhythm.

And maybe it hurts a little, but Tony loves it.  Maybe it’s a little too much, but he can’t let Steve stop.  He can’t let Steve think he’s not up to taking anything Steve can dish out, that Tony can’t take anything that—that someone else can.

“Tony, it feels so, so good,” Steve is groaning in time with his thrusts, his voice muffled against the heated skin at the back of Tony’s neck, “You’re so good—so good to me—”

“Shut the fuck up and fuck me,” Tony growls into the pillow, shoving back, hard, “Fuck me through the mattress.”  Tony spreads his knees wider, digs his hands into the bedding, bracing, “Pound me until I can’t walk straight.  Pump me so full of come that I taste it in the back of my fucking throat—” 

Steve moans again and grinds closer, pushes Tony’s elbows close to his sides and holds them there—he brackets Tony’s body with his solid, unyielding arms until Tony can’t move at all; he’s enveloped, encased, exquisitely trapped under Steve’s bulk.  All he can hear is Steve’s gasping, all he can feel is Steve’s body pressed against every inch of him, inside and out, surrounding him, invading him.

Steve fucks him for a long time after that, still holding him down.  And it still hurts, maybe hurts worse—but it’s good, it’s fucking delicious.  Tony presses his face into the pillow and moans in time with Steve’s thrusts, matches his cadence, follows his lead—like he’s always done, like he always will.  He closes his eyes and thinks of nothing.

~

After—after Steve pulls out of him, leaving him open and empty, after Steve falls back onto his side of the bed and slowly evens out his breathing—he tries to talk again.

Tony turns away.  The sound of Steve’s voice rolls off the wall of his back.  He basks in the noise of it, lets the sounds move across his skin, warm, like a salve against newly sore muscles and still-bruising flesh.  He doesn’t let the words penetrate.  But—

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve says at the end, “I know I made a mess of things.”

Tony closes eyes, rolls onto his back.

It hurts, but—this _isn’t_ Steve’s fault.  It’s not Barnes’ fault either, or Tony’s.  It’s the entire fucking universe conspiring, twisting, swirling to pull at the threads of their lives until the whole thing unravels, comes apart at the seams.  And it was inevitable, really.  Everything that Tony touches—that touches him—eventually turns to shit.

Tony can’t fault Barnes for things he did out of his control.  He can’t fault the guy for finding Steve after clawing his way out of the horror.  He can’t fault Steve for choosing him.

This isn’t their fault—Tony’s not stupid, not blind.  He can’t hold on to the anger anymore, can’t blame them, can’t hate them.

He can’t forgive them.

“Just go,” he says, finally.  “Just fucking leave. Go back to your Bucky.”

Tony stares at the ceiling, knows Steve is watching him.  He can hear the slow, carefully controlled breaths.  He can practically feel the way Steve’s shoulders are tightening again, the way his hands are clenching into fists. 

Tony pulls his arms up to fold under his head.  The movement makes things—shift, and he feels the wetness leak out of him.  Steve’s wetness. 

Tony finally turns his head to look, to say something— _I’m sorry;_ or, _I didn’t mean it;_ or—

But Steve has already spun around, is already leaving.  The wide expanse of his back is drawn up like a wall, a bulwark as he walks away from Tony.

The door doesn’t make a sound as it shuts behind him:  Steve closes it quietly.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Um... sorry? :((
> 
> So hopefully this was clear in the story itself, but for the purposes of this—Steve was able to get Bucky out of that stupid cryo chamber post-movie because, reasons, and they’re sharing an apartment in Brooklyn. Does that mean Steve is a cheating bastard who's crawled out of Bucky's bed to climb back into Tony's? Or is Tony's penchant for self-destructiveness making him draw painful conclusions based very loosely on actual facts? That, dear reader, is entirely up to you ... ;)
> 
> If you’re looking for happier Stony reads, check out some [Shiny New Kinks](http://archiveofourown.org/series/439186)!
> 
> I’m using this to fill the _Forbidden Fruit_ box on my [Trope bingo card](http://kaesaria.tumblr.com/post/142415143424/my-updated-trope-bingo-card-deadline-for-fills) and the _Pining/Unrequited_ box on my [Stony bingo card](http://kaesaria.tumblr.com/post/142381886309/my-updated-stony-bingo-card-deadline-for-fills).
> 
> Story title is from the song _Closer_ by Nine Inch Nails. Story summary is taken directly from [crescent_gaia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crescent_gaia/)’s lovely prompt.
> 
> All feedback is hugely appreciated. You can also discuss this story (or anything else) with me on [Tumblr](http://kaesaria.tumblr.com/). **(ETA: And now also on Imzy.[Come play with me!](https://www.imzy.com/kaesaria))**


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